The There There Letter: Aspiration, Annualism, and Authenticity
Three things from DAH.
DAH is me, David Anthony Hance. Thinking about practicing being.
First up this week, Aspiration …
I remember aspiration. I'm not thinking about that time when a sip of Sauvignon Blanc slipped down my windpipe. Although, truth be told, I do think about that, in order to avoid it happening in the future. But there was a time when I aspired (the grand goal aspire) more than I do now. Big dreams in my youth: Did they motivate me? I seldom achieved any major objectives, but I did feel motivated. I wonder whether the motivation came first, and I identified aspirations to focus that energy. Today, I feel low in aspirations, but not in motivation. Am I just waiting for an aspiration to drop on my head? When it does will it hurt?
Motivation and aspiration: what’s the point?
Second up this week, Annualism …
My Mum did a "photo a day for a year" project. It was fun. Lots of people embark on similar annual paths. Doing something every day for a year is certainly a mark of sticktoitiveness. The daily practice of whatever might lead to mastery of something. Or the annual objective may be totally arbitrary, which is what I suspect. Like 10,000 daily steps for good health, or Malcolm Gladwell's 10,000 hours of practice before mastery, 365 days to something feels a bit like a countable way to dance by the campfire of life, crossing day after day off the calendar. Honestly, though, do you really have something better to do? Be honest.
Just what is 'annualism'?
Third up this week, Authenticity …
"Muy autentico," say friends of their favorite Mexican restaurants. I understand what they mean, but I don't entirely believe them. I would say that only in jest because authenticity confuses me. I've an abiding interest in authenticity and provenance, but I also know that these concepts have been degraded by marketing. At first, such marketing jargon was seductive, until I realized I was being sold things that were glibly labeled "authentic-style" or "homestyle," as if my English grandparents had ever imagined that fish and chips might be served that way. I do like it when something satisfies my idealized memory of something similar. Too often the newer something is disappointing as a relic-reminder. Better to value each something on its own merits. Delicious fish and chips needn't be "muy autentico."
Authenticity and Food Rules
And a bit more:
Nostalgia, by Billy Collins
Remember the 1340s? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow."
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.
Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet
marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags
of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone.
Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle
while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.
We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.
These days language seems transparent, a badly broken code.
The 1790s will never come again. Childhood was big.
People would take walks to the very tops of hills
and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.
Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.
We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.
It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.
I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.
Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.
And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,
time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,
or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me
recapture the serenity of last month when we picked
berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.
Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.
I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees
and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light
flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse
and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.
As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,
letting my memory rush over them like water
rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.
I was even thinking a little about the future, that place
where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,
a dance whose name we can only guess.
And that's all for this week.
From Mary Oliver’s poem Sometimes …
DAH is me, David Anthony Hance. Thinking about practicing being.
First up this week, Aspiration …
I remember aspiration. I'm not thinking about that time when a sip of Sauvignon Blanc slipped down my windpipe. Although, truth be told, I do think about that, in order to avoid it happening in the future. But there was a time when I aspired (the grand goal aspire) more than I do now. Big dreams in my youth: Did they motivate me? I seldom achieved any major objectives, but I did feel motivated. I wonder whether the motivation came first, and I identified aspirations to focus that energy. Today, I feel low in aspirations, but not in motivation. Am I just waiting for an aspiration to drop on my head? When it does will it hurt?
Motivation and aspiration: what’s the point?
Second up this week, Annualism …
My Mum did a "photo a day for a year" project. It was fun. Lots of people embark on similar annual paths. Doing something every day for a year is certainly a mark of sticktoitiveness. The daily practice of whatever might lead to mastery of something. Or the annual objective may be totally arbitrary, which is what I suspect. Like 10,000 daily steps for good health, or Malcolm Gladwell's 10,000 hours of practice before mastery, 365 days to something feels a bit like a countable way to dance by the campfire of life, crossing day after day off the calendar. Honestly, though, do you really have something better to do? Be honest.
Just what is 'annualism'?
Third up this week, Authenticity …
"Muy autentico," say friends of their favorite Mexican restaurants. I understand what they mean, but I don't entirely believe them. I would say that only in jest because authenticity confuses me. I've an abiding interest in authenticity and provenance, but I also know that these concepts have been degraded by marketing. At first, such marketing jargon was seductive, until I realized I was being sold things that were glibly labeled "authentic-style" or "homestyle," as if my English grandparents had ever imagined that fish and chips might be served that way. I do like it when something satisfies my idealized memory of something similar. Too often the newer something is disappointing as a relic-reminder. Better to value each something on its own merits. Delicious fish and chips needn't be "muy autentico."
Authenticity and Food Rules
And a bit more:
Nostalgia, by Billy Collins
Remember the 1340s? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow."
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.
Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet
marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags
of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone.
Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle
while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.
We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.
These days language seems transparent, a badly broken code.
The 1790s will never come again. Childhood was big.
People would take walks to the very tops of hills
and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.
Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.
We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.
It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.
I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.
Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.
And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,
time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,
or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me
recapture the serenity of last month when we picked
berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.
Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.
I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees
and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light
flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse
and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.
As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,
letting my memory rush over them like water
rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.
I was even thinking a little about the future, that place
where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,
a dance whose name we can only guess.
And that's all for this week.
From Mary Oliver’s poem Sometimes …
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
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